The Faded Frequency
The hand trembled, not from the chill of the November air that seeped through the drafty windows of the textile mill, but from the deep, grinding fatigue of a body that had long since ceased to belong to the woman who occupied it, a trembling that Margaret Holloway had come to view not as a symptom of her failing health, but as a quiet, persistent rebellion against the very idea of time itself,...
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